Masks
by Alba Adler
Summary: But no matter how thirsty he became in the future, he could never allow himself to become intoxicated with that wench. And he was willing to bet his right hand on that.


First of all I want to say thank you to SapphireOceans who helped me to correct this mess. I'm not a native English speaker, so please be nice at me and tell what do you think.

**Masks**

* * *

The first time he saw her, he was too drunk to pay her any attention. And, of course, the first time he did pay attention to her, it was only in order to find the best way to get rid of her.

With his senses numbed by alcohol and his limbs stiff through weeks of inactivity, he had let himself by dragged and carried off like a rag doll. It was only when unwelcome sobriety washed over him that Jaime had the chance to watch his companions. Cleo, his cousin, was a coward; a boring coward. On the other hand, the 'woman' -for lack of a better word- was as interesting as she was ugly.

She was, whatever way you looked at her, an offense to her gender. But she was agile, strong and more intelligent than most of the men he knew. Plus she has the guts to insult him face to face. He only needed a look to convince himself that even were he unchained and sword in hand, she'd repeat her statements word for word without cowering. There weren't many men in the Seven Kingdoms about which he could say the same.

At first he assumed that the wench's only redeeming qualities were her high birth and her beautiful name. Brienne… it sounded like the promise of spring, of fresh wind and green fields. Sadly, her face and body did not only betray said promise, but practically insulted it. Nevertheless, when he heard her defending the beauties of Tarth at a later date, her gorgeous blue eyes shining in the dark distracted him momentarily from her freckled face and prominent teeth.

Besides, there was something in her gaze that captured his attention, a loneliness so dark that you could lose yourself in it; wounds so deep that they would bleed at the lightest touch; a world of coldness and emptiness. Her past horrors enclosed within highs walls built out of alienation and taciturnity. Jaime Lannister knew a little about that. Inside himself he sometimes thought that there was nothing but a labyrinth formed of walls built with stones of cynicism and disdain.

He concealed a sigh as he thought to himself that he really would feel sorry for killing her, even in order to free himself and return home. Return to Cersei's arms, to the conversations with Tyrion, to his father high expectations. Return to the white cloak that wasn't enough to protect him from the constant murmurings that followed him like a shadow wherever he went.

His chance to finish the ugly wench was presented to him sooner than he had anticipated. He was weaker than a little lamb, but he knew that he had the necessary strength to hit her over the head with the oar. He would probably only stun her, but the river would do the rest. However, before he even had the chance to dwell on the idea, he was already helping her into the boat.

Perhaps, he thought after a moment, for someone whose eyes were so full of shadows and loneliness, life itself it was a punishment. And he could not imagine greater cruelty than prolonging that life. Maybe he was been noble, giving her the opportunity to go on and find something to finally fill the emptiness that she disguised with her hard mask. Secretly, he dreamed of an opportunity like that for himself. However, after all this time alone and confined, the temptation of having fun at expense of The Maid of Tarth was just too irresistible.

The woman took the oars and Jaime could watch her once again. She was like the wine that Lady Catelyn used to stun him; sour and vile. Yet, at that time he was so thirsty that he allowed himself to become intoxicated nevertheless. But no matter how thirsty he became in the future, he could never allow himself to become intoxicated with that wench. And he was willing to bet his right hand on that.

* * *

Before she even saw him, Brienne heard him.

She would have preferred not to, since the conversation that took place behind the door was not intended for her ears, but she had to stay close, in case Lady Stark had need of her. Loose sentences drifted her way, and despite her efforts to ignore them she heard enough to feel horrified. Even her momentary pity for the man in the cell this wasn't strong enough to erase her repulsion when she heard him confess himself guilty of such atrocious crimes and still make vulgar jokes.

When she finally faced him, she thought his current state was merely a reflection of his soul. He was dirty, ragged, surrounded by excrement, and from him emanated a rotten stink. However, as she got closer to him, saw him in better light, she could understand why the Lannister twins' beauty was so widely praised. Despite everything, the man had charming look, a tempting smile and facial features as perfect as a statue. Brienne strove to not hate him because of that. The Gods had to be really cruel to bless a man whose soul was so corrupted with such a perfect appearance. If there was any justice in life, if people's appearance mirrored their souls, then she was sure that Jaime Lannister would be nowhere near as handsome as he was; and that she herself would not be so repulsive.

Fate had never been good to her, and now it had made the Kingslayer her burden, a burden which she took with no little resignation. She bore his constant chatter and his taunts until she began to find something artificial in his cynicism. Nobody could be so indolent unintentionally. He had to have a very good reason to do so.

There were moments when Brienne wondered whether all of the arrogance and insensitivity of the Kingslayer was nothing but a mask to hide a more vulnerable side. She felt it especially when the insolent smile of the man died on his lips and she found him with a lost look on his face, gazing out onto the horizon. In those brief moments, she seemed to be facing a different man, one closer to the role of victim than perpetrator. But the impression never lasted more than a fleeting moment; then the cynical smile returned, as did the arrogant persona behind it. Then she would feel, once again, as though she was being observed. She was used to looks of displeasure, to being pointed at and ridiculed. She would never be immune to that, but she knew how to deal with it. Jaime's glances were different; of scrutiny, of analysis. He seemed to be trying to decipher her. She avoided to looking at him in the eye because she felt that every time she did he was, one by one, stealing the secrets that she jealously guarded inside her, and she trembled with fear to imagine how much the men would laugh if he saw her naked her soul and knew her history.

However, as the hours passed and the trip became more complicated, the man began to look at her with something almost akin to respect, and that was a way that nobody had looked at her before. It was possible though, she thought, that she was only was imagining things due to tiredness or the uncomfortable situation they had both found themselves in.

Despite her young age, she had lived long enough to understand the evil that could live inside a man's heart or a woman's tongue. She wasn't a girl that could be fooled with a charming smile and an absent glance. She would rather fight a bear with her bare hands than place her trust in the Kingslayers' goodness or honour.


End file.
